So we were about a weeks easy ride north of Oxenfurt when we got the news about my father's accident.

And you have no idea how long it's taken me to sit here and right that sentence.

The story of what happened to the Baron Coulthard has, by now, reached all parts of society that can easily be reached. Letters have come from the capital of Nilfgaard regarding these events and now that the official part of the investigation is concluded, I am free to talk about it, what happened and how it involved a certain Witcher.

You see there have been several problems. The first of them all has been that the events that I'm about to describe to you are of an intensely private and personal nature and as such I am uncomfortable talking about them. On the other hand, the faint and exciting scent of scandal has been hanging over these events since they happened. Some people need their reputations protecting and other people are trying to claim the moral high-ground when, in my opinion, they have no right to it. I am by no means an unbiased observer of these events and they have had a profound effect on me and those people that I care about while also continuing to do so for many years to come.

Another problem is an academic one. These articles that you, my dear readers, have in your hands are written on the sufferance of the University magazine and to use them as a pulpit for my own feelings and agendas is actually far from their intended use. Much to my surprise, pleasure and no little amount of horror I have become an active participant in those events that I set out to observe and record. I am not at all objective. I have been told by my professors that a true scholar would be able to stand aside fro his subject and use the cold dispassionate logic of an outside observer. To simply record these events without judgement.

But I find that I cannot do that. I cannot stand aside and allow someone to die a most grisly and horrible death by my inaction. To my mind I set out to find out what life is like on the road, to record what being a Witcher is all about. Their day to day lives, their feelings about their work and how people treat them. I maintain that the best way to do that is to work, fight and walk alongside him. However a couple of my academic critics have pointed out that Kerrass has almost become a side character in some of my accounts. That these writings are no longer about him but are about the many people that I have come across on my

travels.

This is not entirely unfair criticism.

It also has relevance regarding what happened with my family. Am I writing about myself, or am I writing about Kerrass, his profession and his methods?

I don't know the answer to that but I do think that I can serve both masters here. The following account will appease many of my readers. Those people that have heard of me through my writing and as a result, heard of my families misfortunes, have written to me to demand an account of what happened. I want to write this account because I want to set the record straight. I know that many people will deny what I am going to write here. Many more people will claim that I have perverted the course of justice and lied about good and decent men in the pursuit of a personal agenda. All I can say to those people is that this account that you hold in your hand and serialised over future issues are the facts as I saw them transpire. They are also the facts as far as the magistrate saw them as well as the Sheriff of Redania who has final say on such matters.

The other reason that I feel justified is from an academic point of view.

You see there has been one point of view that I have never had the opportunity to pursue properly which is that of the victim. Those people who are so desperate that they are willing to hire a stranger, a mercenary to save themselves. To fight those enemies that cannot be fought in any other way. In short, those people who would hire themselves a Witcher. What's that like? How does that feel? These are questions that I can now answer and add into the record of what it is to be a Witcher.

So as I say. We were about a weeks easy ride north of Oxenfurt. Our business in the north was concluded (Again I must apologise. I am aware that many people wanted to know what this was and I will write about it after I've spent some more time thinking about those events. It was not an easy subject to process) and Kerrass had taken a number of contracts as we came over the mountains from Kaedwen back into Redania, exorcising his own complicated thoughts about what had happened in the north-east. As a result we were not short of coin. Kerrass had continued his practice of sharing his profits with me to a certain extent as I had helped carry him when times had been leaner and we were on our way back south to collect some of the many bounties that would be taken on the plague of Necrophages that was still continuing in Northern Temeria where the battlefronts had been.

There had been some talk of the increased need for Monster-slayers in the inns on the way back south as well. In my guise as a “Witcher's apprentice” I received many comments that “it's a good trade” and “You'll never be short of work” and other such sayings. Comments that Kerrass found both amusing and more than a little insulting. Rumours were rife on that regard. Some said that Empress-elect Cirilla had ordered the formation of a Monster-hunting elite regiment of men. Others claimed that she had ordered the reconstruction of the Witcher schools. I never pay much heed to such rumours though as there were just as many rumours that said that the Empress in waiting could heal any injury with a touch (which may be closer to the truth than I am entirely comfortable with) and largely spent her time screaming at her father. Another rumour said that a number of Witch-hunters and knights were reluctant to return to their former trades of administration or minor nobility and had banded together in an effort to reform the order of the Flaming Rose to combat the increase number of monsters in the vastly depopulated wilderness.

Kerrass always snorted at such things, decrying such people as “dangerous amateurs”. I challenged him once as to why he didn't try to help such people with advice and training but he threw the old peasant saying of “You can't make a silk purse out of a pigs ear” back in my face and stomped off in a fury.

But anyway we were on our way south. It was late Spring, Early Summer. The kind of climate where it's pleasantly warm and sunny but then a rain-storm will come out of nowhere. Or you go to sleep with a thin blanket expecting a warm night only to wake up shivering. We had spent the previous night in an abandoned cottage as there had been storm clouds off to the east and we wanted a little shelter as the terrain mostly seemed to be made up of deserted farmland.

The plan was that we were going to stop off at Oxenfurt so that I could drop off some of the notes that I had been working on, pick up some more paper and ink supplies and check in with my publishers and professors who, I understand, were busy lining up a guest lecture spot for Kerrass on Monster anatomy. I was morbidly looking forward to it in a way as Kerrass had gleefully declared that he was looking forward to it and had taken great delight in gathering what he described as “samples” for the students to see. But anyway we would stop off, I could do things, Kerrass could do his own re-stocking of herbs and things. A proper load of supplies before we headed down into Velen and the Necrophage hunt. Velen still being extremely depopulated and lacking in places to get those requirements.

We found a small village in the late morning and were just getting the horses stabled and groomed so that we could get a hot meal and things when there was the sound of hoof-beats, a lot of hoof-beats and the jangle of armour. The similarity to this occasion and our first meeting with Dorme was not lost on me and I unstrapped my spear from my saddle and noticed that Kerrass was also studying his sword, whet-stone in hand as though he was sharpening it although in reality it was ready to use.

“Lord Frederick?” Someone called. “Lord Frederick von Coulthard.”

By stables I should say that it was the equivalent of a small wooden structure. We were lucky that it had walls for the kind of village that it was. There were maybe eight houses and an inn. One of the houses was a merchants place where travelling merchants could bunk down for the night and set their stalls out in the morning and another house was the site of a blacksmith who mostly made and mended farming equipment. He still had a couple of swords left over from the war but by his own admission they weren't the best quality. The inn won't have had separate rooms, you could have paid for a space on the floor but that was about it. It was the sort of place that farmers need when they need to trade gossip, livestock and goods and the next town is just too far over.

I say all this by way of explanation that there was no where and no way to hide.

“Lord Frederick von Coulthard. Advance and make yourself known or rewards can be offered for his whereabouts.”

I looked at Kerrass who shrugged.

“Just so I'm sure,” I said quietly. “But it's never a good sign when they know who you are is it?”

“Not generally no,”

“Oh good.” I advanced back into the light with my spear held casually and comfortably in my hand.

The group of horsemen, unlike Lord Dorme's entourage were hardened professionals. You can always tell because the men are generally filthy but their equipment is always clean and their horses are well cared for. These men knew that their survival might depend on their horses and as such probably cared for their mounts more than they did themselves.

There are other signs as well if you know what to look for. A couple of them had bows drawn and arrows strung. They were lowered so they weren't expecting trouble but they were prepared for it. The bows were liberally place around the formation. The other men had their weapons sheathed but in easily reachable places. Spears strapped to saddles on right, bow and sword on left. Shields already strapped to arms. Their chain mail was lighter than an infantry man's standard armour would be as it had been interwoven with leather strips. I had learned that this was done for lightness but also to muffle sound and to dull the armour so that a stray sunbeam might not disclose position. These men were veterans of the war who were good enough to be kept on after the treaty. They wore the golden sun of our official overlords over their right shoulders and the Redanian flag on their shield covers. Covers that could be removed if they needed to move incognito.

Their leader was a tall man standing at six feet if I was to judge with a scar on the right side of his face which gave his face a kind of mocking expression. The only sign that he was in charge was that he had an officers signal horn strapped to his waist. Otherwise he was indistinguishable from his men. The hilt of his sword was well worn and he walked with the slight bow-legged stride of a man that spends more time on horseback than using his feet.

He dismounted when we emerged, looked the pair of us up and down and compared us to a drawing that he

had on paper. His lips moved as he read the words before he tucked the paper into one of his saddlebags.

“Lord Coulthard?” He asked me.

I was still feeling a little prickly and wary after the last time a group of horsemen had approached us.

“Who's asking?” I called over.

The man smiled.

“Sir Rickard Fletcher of Temeria, sir. Redanian Guards sir. I have a message for Lord Frederick Coulthard that is marked as both private and urgent.” His accent sounded rough and without wishing the man insult, it didn't sound like the voice of a knight and I said so.

He grinned ruefully.

“Had the “fortune” to be standing next to Lord Natalis during the fall of Temeria sir. He thinks I saved his life and knighted me for it. Ungrateful bastard that he is.”

“But working for Redanians?”

“Bastards are bastards wherever you go sir. Roadside bastards especially. Forgive my language sir. I just dislike brigands and bullies. We patrol the roads and hunt out all of those army deserters who decided that they preferred banditry to going home after the war. Lords Roche and Natalis had Temeria pretty well under control but Redania was struggling so we were offered as... “help”...Sir.”

I nodded. It was a credible story.

Sir Rickard approached he and Kerrass looked each other up and down. It was not a new thing between Kerrass and other fighting men but Rickard reacted a little differently in that he nodded to the Witcher as a mark of respect between equals. Surprised, Kerrass nodded back.

Sir Rickard held out a scroll. Checking the seal I felt the hair stand up on the back of my neck. It was our families official seal.

“Thank you Sir Rickard.” I moved off a little way and broke the seal to read the letter.

The first time I read it I kind of staggered up against the wall of the stable but I didn't really take the news in. I was looking at the words rather than reading them. Taking their meaning into my brain in some kind of subliminal way. So even though I was leaning up against the wall and fighting for breath through the lump that had taken residence in my throat, I had to read the letter again to make sense of it.

As of today I am sat some distance from these events and the paper is long since missing. But even though it was mere weeks ago I cannot seem to remember the entirety of the letter. I remember thinking that it was odd. That it didn't make sense and that it was difficult to read. The blatant hypocrisy of noticing a spelling mistake and a couple of grammar errors as I read it hit me somewhere and I chuckled aloud.

The long and short of the entire thing was that my father had suffered a rather severe hunting accident and was dying despite the efforts of the best physicians that Oxenfurt university could be persuaded to send. My father had refused to send for a Sorcerer and as such it was expected that he wouldn't last much longer before succumbing to his wounds. I was urged to go home with all due haste as my father had been asking for me.

I read it a third time just to be sure that I hadn't missed anything out. I recognised my sisters hand-writing. She would have rejected the idea of consigning such news to the hand of a scribe but at the same time it was maddeningly short of news. How had he been injured? What had happened? My father hunted regularly, how could he have been allowed to be so careless as to allow himself to be injured?

The questions formed themselves up and marched across my mind in letters of fire.

What were the rest of the family doing? How long ago had this happened? Would he still be alive by the time that I got there? Had the relevant authorities been informed? Of course they had. The letter had been delivered by military escort. How else was my life going to change? I had always considered the possibility of course. There were three brothers ahead of me in the line of inheritance but that didn't mean that there wouldn't be some quite considerable changes. My eldest brother would now inherit and he and I had never been close. To say that we despised each other would not really have been an understatement. I very much doubted that he would allow me to continue with “my hobby” which is what he called my academic work. I could probably look forward to being farmed off to be husband to some woman's husband in return for whatever dowry could be got and a life of administration and constant calls of “You wouldn't let the family down would you?” as my brother called on my loyalty to pay off his gambling debts.

But at the same time I found that I was a little excited. The Status Quo was changing. Admittedly, probably for the worst but I was a much different person than I had been the last time I had seen my family and I was much more confident that I could stand on my own two feet.

You might have noticed a lack of grief as all of this was being thought about. Don't worry, it was indeed there, but it still seemed a short distance away as though it didn't quite make sense yet. As though it wasn't entirely real.

Then I started with explanations in my own head. Anything could have happened between the time of the incident and now and many more things could happen between now and when I actually arrived home. Maybe someone would have talked some sense into father by that point and as a result he might have sent for some kind of wizard of Sorcerer to heal his injuries. It was true that he would have to get over his stubborn dislike of magic users, which I had always thought was more bred from a political ambition rather than a genuine prejudice, but staring death in the face was a powerful thing to get you to try new ideas.

At some point I had let the letter fall from my hands. I don't remember whether I had screwed it up or not but Kerrass was nearby, had stooped to catch it and was reading it.

I didn't notice. My brain was still working.

The prospect of not going wasn't even a question that was worth considering. Of course I was going to go. My sister had asked me to and there aren't many things that I wasn't prepared to do for my sister. I tried to think about how much time it was going to take to get home and shouting down those stupid voices that told me that I wouldn't need sleep during the journey.

I noticed that my eyes felt hot and rubbed at them stupidly and wondered why my face was wet.

Kerrass had left and was speaking to Sir Rickard. I was oblivious to this until Kerrass started to take gear of his horse and pile it on the ground.

“Kerrass, I ummm.”

“Yeah?” he asked not looking up from what he was doing.

“I have to go.”

He looked up at me.

“I have to go home and I uh,” I put my hand up to my forehead which was beginning to ache. I felt exhausted and energised at the same time. I wanted to collapse into a heap and run away screaming. I wanted to leap on my horse and flog it to death to get home as quickly as possible. “I have to go home. There's a family crisis going on. My dad's dying.”

My stomach cramped for a second and I put my hand out to the wall to steady myself.

“My dad's dying and I need to go home and take care of it. I don't know how long that's going to take.”

“I know,” he said. He went back to taking his stuff off the horse. One of the soldiers came in and picked up an armload of it.

“I don't know if you want to carry on to Velen and I'll try and meet you later or even if you...” I coughed. “If you want to part ways here but I have to go.”

“I know,” he said smiling a little bit. “Sir Rickard told me what happened and your letter told me the rest. I have it by the way I assumed you would want to keep it rather than leaving it in the dung.”

He moved past me and started taking things off my own horse which finally managed to jar me out of my fog.

“What are you doing?”

“Changing our saddles. You've got enough to think about at the moment so I'm helping. Sir Rickard has provisions for you but one of his men is buying extra for me. He has a spare horse for you and he's going to leave some men behind to bring up our horses to your families keep later.”

“Wait...what?”

“Well, he expected to be escorting you home and not me as his orders didn't include me.”

“You're coming with me?”

“Of course I am.” He made his voice indignant although his face looked as though he was trying to gauge whether he needed to catch me or not. “That's what friends do isn't it? Help each other out through tough times.”

I nodded and that's when the tears started coming.

It was the first time that Kerrass had called me friend and at that moment it meant the world to me that I wouldn't have to make that journey home alone.

I felt his hand on my shoulder.

“Come on. The faster we can get our gear stowed on the other horses the faster we can get you home and you can find out what's going on.”

I nodded and got to work.

It turns out that the accident had happened about a week ago and that it would take us about four days to get home. I should also say that Sir Rickard and his men were absolutely incredible during that journey and couldn't be more accommodating to my temper tantrums which were handed with deftness and grace, my sadness tantrums that were handled with humour and offers of alcohol and my impatience which was handled with humour and logic. But even despite that I was pretty sure that he would be all but dead by the time that I got home

They all knew what had happened because of course they did. It was common knowledge in that part of the world that something had happened to Baron Coulthard, one of the richest Barons in the north. It would only have been a matter of time before I came across the information myself but I was grateful that I had been found by one of my sisters messengers rather than hearing about it in some tavern somewhere.

Sir Rickards men were also frighteningly and wonderfully professional A huge difference from the many armed guards and soldiers that I had met during my travels. Sir Rickard kept very harsh, strict and absolute discipline despite the blatant criminality of some of the men that he had following him. One man had pale eyes who hungrily watched everything and had a habit of staring at you without blinking while playing with a skinning knife. Another man talked openly about poaching from various people's lands and the kind of food that could be found in this part of the world along with the best way to cook it. It didn't take much cajoling to find out that the lot of them were thieves and murderers who had been driven to the army out of starvation or to avoid the noose when criminals were still being used to fill the ranks during war time. In one of my more lucid moments I asked one why they still kept following Sir Rickard now that the war was over and they could easily desert back to the lives of thievery and banditry that had employed them before. The man looked at me as though I was terminally idiotic and said “Well it's 'is Lordship innit?” before wandering off shaking his head at the stupidity of the nobility.

The discipline was also very simple. Sir Rickard kept a number of rules that could easily be followed by his men. I tackled him about them later in time as our friendship grew (after these events) and he said he came up with them as simple ways to maintain discipline when he was leading the worst kinds of scum (he said that affectionately. He loves his men and they him even though he doesn't display this affection often.)

The first rule was that the men should fight like the bastards that Sir Rickard knew them to be. If they failed in this duty then the punishment would be up to the other men of the unit that had been let down by that failure. Apparently it had only ever happened once.

The second rule was that they should only get drunk when permission was given. Punishment varied depending on the danger of the timing of the drunkenness. Drunk on duty was given a flogging, drunk during a fight meant punishment at the hands of the unit again. Other Drunkenness was punished according to Sir Rickard's whim and desire for amusement.

The third rule was that women should be treated with respect and Rape is forbidden. Breach of the respect rule is punished by an informal beating at the hands of the woman's nearest male relative. Rape was punished by castration with two slabs of rock that was carried around in the sergeants back-pack. Sir Rickards only response was “I don't like rapists,” and considered the matter closed.

The fourth rule was that his men should steal nothing but from the enemy. Resulting in flogging or hanging.

“Simple direct rules,” he has said to me. “Soldiers and men in general like simple rules and leaders who follow those rules themselves. That's all leadership is. Set high standards, meet them yourself, never expect someone under your command to do something you wouldn't do yourself and always give credit where it's due.” He shrugged and then refilled my drink.

Those men treated me like a little brother that needed looking after and Kerrass like one of their own. Especially after Sir Rickard challenged him to a Sword fight and lost, much to the hooting and jeering of the men.

It should have taken us four days to get back to my families estate. It took us three.

Sir Rickard set a hard pace and we would ride into military compounds and “commandeer” remounts under his authority before riding on. I noticed that even men who technically outranked Sir Rickard backed down in the face of his crooked smile. The fact that one of his men was always nearby grinning manically at the superior officer didn't seem to have any kind of effect.

At all. No, not at all.

I also need to update the rather paltry write up I did about my family some time ago so that you can be aware of what I'm talking about when they start to come up.

Ready?

My families estate is large for that of a Baron and sits about two days east of Oxenfurt. As I've mentioned before my family is considered “new money” by the current crop of nobility but my fathers line is full of men who have bettered both themselves and their families lot in life. All jesting aside and leaving my own disapproval of some of my fathers policies and politics along with the jokes, they did this by working damn hard. My great great grandfather had been an orphan on the streets of some unnamed city. My great grandfather was a farmer, grandfather made us rich nobility and father made us richer and grander nobility.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

My Fathers name is Francis von Coulthard and although he is not the richest man in what remains of the Northern Kingdoms, on a list of the top ten, his name would feature. Again to be fair to him, most of that money was invested rather than lying around in some room. Most of it was invested into merchant enterprises that made the family even more money but a significant chunk of it was invested into his lands and it's people. He had made roads, paid for farming improvements and technology as well as buying extra supplies in from outside of his lands when famine hit hard immediately after the most recent wars. He paid dwarves to craft things for the people and as a result there was a dwarven settlement on our lands and a liberal sprinkling of church schools had also sprung up in some of the more major towns and villagers that make up our lands after several hefty donations to the church. All of which paid into each other and people would go out of their way to come to our lands.

He also decided to specialise. He went out of his way to turn what spare land he had (which was considerable) into a hunting reserve. Animals were brought from all over the Northern Kingdoms along with trainers and breeders to be released into these hunting reserves so that people could be invited to come over and hunt them. These hunts eventually became famous and were a significant part of “societies activities” in the north, bringing our family a lot of prestige.

Father would then expand by offering reasonable sums of money to buy up land bordering ours and expand his interest. Prior to the war King Radovid had ordered that he stop doing this for fear of having my father rival him in wealth and importance, but then the war had happened.

Father was one of the few who had predicted the most recent war, arguing that Nilfgaard wouldn't be happy with what had happened previously and when Nilfgaard crossed the Yaruga again Father turned up to the Kings court with enough arms and armaments to equip a significant number of soldiers better than they had ever been equipped before. In the official histories of the third Nilfgaardian war there will be several reasons why Nilfgaard didn't cross the Pontar and take Novigrad by force but my fathers money and the innovations it bought is one of them

As a result, our family gained favour, which was the point, and our various military positions were guaranteed. My eldest brother was Fathers assistant in the Logistics division which came with a rank so that he could claim that he had “served” in the war, my next brother was already a priest anyway and my third brother was assigned to a “good” unit where he could see action and gain glory for himself and his family as well as being kept reasonably safe.

For those keeping track... I could read, write, do maths and had half a brain. I was given a token rank and shuffled into the armies bureaucracy. I read reports, filed those reports and checked requisitions. At the time I was cross but now, having seen the results of injuries I think that I was the lucky one.

When King Radovid died my family did indeed suffer a bit of a set-back as many of the surviving nobles were his favourites that he kept close by and these were the people that hated my fathers increased influence. The drive, patriotism and ambition that had flared up in my father during the war died back down and he was left with his old schemes and went back to making more money knowing that an opportunity like that wouldn't come again in his life-time.

He had started to let business dealings go into the rest of the family to be taken up by others during his descent into bitterness and anger at the state of the world and the stubbornness of the nobility in not recognising his brilliance and increasingly his only pleasure in life was to go out on his hunts.

Given this I supposed that the accident was inevitable really while we were on the journey back to our lands.

We had a castle that stood in the middle of them which was my fathers “seat” for want of a better word. It was a large sprawling thing that sat on the top of a hill that was now surrounded by hunting land. It had been built by one of the previous nobles of the area as a massive display of that nobles power and wealth. Unfortunately, in building such a grand, huge and admittedly beautiful castle he had bankrupted himself and it had fallen into ruin as practical peasants will steal good stone from anywhere.

My father bought it for a fraction of what it had cost to build, repaired and renovated it for a similar amount and still saved money on the deal. I remember being excited about moving in as a small boy and being admonished not to get lost. An order that my sister and I promptly ignored.

My mother's name is Henrietta von Coulthard which I always found amusing for some kind of childish reason. I always wanted to call her Henry and wondered if her parents had secretly wanted a boy but then couldn't think of a new name to replace the existing one. She is a tall woman although she seems to have shrunk in recent years although her physical height remains the same.

Father married her for the money, land and the prestige, there is no point in pretending otherwise but by all accounts they managed to find a contentment and affection for each other that grew into a love of a kind. They never talked about it and that comment on their feelings for each other is based entirely on hear-say from my elder siblings and people who knew them at the time.

She comes from blood so old and intermingled that they can trace their line from father to son back to the people that first landed in the delta. I can't answer to the truth of those things as obviously everyone can do that but they took a great deal of pride in that fact. They were so intermarried with the other nobles that someone somewhere could probably prove that I'm somewhere in the line of succession to the throne. In practical terms what that meant was that the gene-pool for those nobles had shrunk considerably and therefore that branch of the family tree had withered on the trunk. They rarely had children and what they did have rarely survived. My mother had one older brother to carry on the family name (which is Kalayn by the way. Lord and Lady Kalayn's estate can be found most of the way up the mountains between Redania and Kaedwen. I think I've visited their lands twice.) and he was busy trying to defend what remains of his families legacy from the circling vultures.

My mother escaped to marry into the so called “new-breed” of nobility that was being encouraged at that time in Redania and even though it caused her to be ostracised by many of her peers it seemed that she was content enough as father could certainly ensure that she lived in a luxury that had been unknown to her up until that point.

When I was much younger it had caused me some pain that my mother and father did not spend as much time together as I wanted them to. Whatever affection that they had for each other had started to wane by that point and no-one seemed to know why. According to my old nanny (yes I had a nanny, deal with it) who had seen to my early schooling before passing me onto other tutors when my youngest sister arrived, the cooling between them started a couple of years after that last child was born. It was a slow thing at first and to an outsider it simply seemed that they had simply grown apart.

My mother caught religion and spent increasing amounts of time in the castle chapel, praying or speaking with the priest there, or studying the various books written by holy men on the subject. She might have made a name for herself in academic circles in that regard except that she rarely left the castle any more to see friends and women weren't really regarded as having the ability or the intelligence to be able to be academic in any circles at that point (a prejudice that still exists today, unfortunately).

Father didn't approve and threw himself into other works and refining the lands and the people and gradually they just seperated. An atmosphere of sadness just...settled over the castle then and I would be lying if I said that it was an entirely pleasant place to grow up. Don't get me wrong... I wouldn't trade it but still, I remember there being a lot of sadness, hostility and tears that I didn't understand as a young boy.

The last time I wrote about my family in any kind of meaningful way I said that my eldest brother was the black sheep of the family. This is not an exaggeration, if anything it is an understatement. His name is Edmund von Coulthard and I dislike him intensely. I've even tried to hate him on more than one occasion but at the end of the day he's still my brother and as such there is a bond of familial feeling there. He's the eldest son and as such was immediately taken under my fathers wing and taught how to run family affairs. Or rather father attempted to teach him family affairs.

What Edmund actually saw was the amount of money that he would have access to when father died and proceeded to become equally as adept at spending money as my father was at making it. No vice was safe from Edmund whether it be gambling, drink, women or drugs which of course led to massive debts. This, in turn meant that Father would frequently have to bail him both with Edmund's creditors and the legal authorities who quickly learned that if they wanted to make any money, all they had to do was follow my brother around for a short while until he did something criminal, “arrest” him for it and wait for the very real “ransom” to come in.

To all intents and purposes he's a handsome man, slim, athletic, tall and knows exactly how to wear different clothes and facial hair to get what he wants. But before any eligible ladies who might be reading this get the idea that he's just a lost lamb in need of some guidance and a loving woman in his life I need to tell you this.

He oozes. I can't say it any better than that. He's just... slimy to be around whether you're male or female although I would say that women get it worse than the men. He's the kind of man who will make extremely lewd comments under the guise of wit & charm while openly staring at a woman's cleavage and drooling.

Then an excuse would be made and he will belittle the ladies escort, whoever that may be and try to provoke a fight in an effort to prove just how masculine he is.

It astonishes me how often this seems to work for him as well.

I've just read through that last paragraph and realised that he still might appeal to a certain kind of person.

He has fought numerous duels with slighted men and impregnated, many women of all classes and those are just the ones that I know about. There are orphanages on our lands that are entirely populated by Edmund's bastards and when challenged about his behaviour, he laughs, makes a negligent gesture and walks off laughing.

No I don't like him.

To all intents and purposes the feeling is mutual.

When he was still under 18 and therefore couldn't wander away from the castle by himself he would bully myself and the other younger siblings mercilessly. I apologise for the unpleasant sentence here but he once grabbed my elder sister between the legs and declared to one and all that she was wet for him. She hit him, inexpertly, in the ribs with a poker and he fled howling. It was a measure of how the household worked that she got in trouble for that.

Was he spoiled?

Yes.

Do our parents and other tutors bear some of the responsibility for that?

Undoubtedly although they have since realised the problem he poses. Fathers looking after the various victims of Edmund's depravities becomes more about the pity that he feels for them than for any sense of his own responsibility.

But all the same... I believe there comes a point where you decide what kind of person you want to be and he chose to be this.

Enough about him. The family improves considerably after that.

Next comes Brother Mark. Or to give him his full title nowadays... Arch-Bishop Mark von Coulthard of Tretogor, servant of the Holy Flame and Defender of the Faith.

I should mention at this stage that the first three siblings are a good ten years older than the second three siblings as that will give you some perspective.

In many ways I really feel sorry for Mark. He would never see it as a disadvantage but at the same time I sometimes feel as though he wasn't given a whole lot of choice as to where he was going in his development. I got to choose what I wanted to do and had the ability and the freedom to be able to go out there and actually do it.

Mark didn't really have that choice as Mark's education and path in life was chosen for him before he was born. At the point of his birth Father was still trying to muscle his way into the inner circles of the nobility by trying to prove that he was as noble as them taking the term “noble” as the virtue rather than the title. As such he wanted to use the old system of the three sons in service to the crown. The first son would follow their father, taking on the family name and inheritance, the second son would go to the church and the third son would go to the army. The sacrifice of the second son to the church was meant to assure that the passage from this life to the next would be a harmonious one while at the same time making sure that there aren't too many people fighting over a limited number of available titles.

So from the moment Mark was born he was being trained, moulded and shaped to become a priest. If there was a point where my mother actually caught religion it was probably here from all the times that priests would come and go to pray over the unborn child. I have all this by hearsay of course but I like to imagine that this is the case.

He joined the chapel choir despite having no discernible musical talent, he spent his days maintaining the constant fires that light the way to church and offer refuge and helped out in whatever holy cause his confessor thought was most appropriate for a boy of his age. As he was never short of money to donate he was well thought of and was predicted to rise far in the church hierarchy providing his access to money would never dwindle.

As soon as he was old enough he went off and was ordained as a priest and came home to oversee the religious education of us younger siblings. At first I remember him as being a large voluminous man with a booming voice who could always come up with some piece of scripture to back up whatever argument he might want to make. When we confessed our sins to him he would be fair but understanding and he was always able to soften the blow with a grin and a sweet.

If he had continued in that vein he and I might have got on a lot better.

Gradually though, as the politics of the church changed he became more and more strict, walking around under a dark cloud of righteous fury and everyone in the castle scurried around in fear of his still booming voice. He no longer smiled or had any kind words while he moved as though his feet were offended by the fact that they had to walk on the ground. He kept up his good works though, but I have always wondered about that change in him as to what triggered it. I once plucked up the courage to ask him whether or not he was happy to which he scornfully told me that “of course I am, who would think anything different to that?” and stomped off.

He was soon promoted away and has steadily climbed up the ranks of the church until his current position where, I'm told, he is unlikely to climb any further due to his origins. Give it another twenty years or so and he might make it to the position of cardinal but it is an outside chance as his blood is not noble enough.

So I'm told.

He continues his good works though and I'm told that his strictest penances are for those people who lack charity to those who are less well off than themselves.

We have come to a better understanding of each other in recent years and on those rare times when we were both home at the same time we could stay up late discussing various things. It was he and my elder sister who told me to follow my desires and go to university to study.

I love my brother a great deal despite the fact that I don't always share his beliefs or his politics. I sometimes think that he would have been a lot happier being one of those monks that you can see sometimes, scurrying around in vast libraries copying things down and reading books that no one has ever heard of or thought about in years.

Then we come to my elder sister.

I love my sister a great deal and if anyone hurts her I will go out of my way to destroy them. The last time I talked about my sister in these writings I said that all women that I have since come to know and who my father occasionally rumbles about arranging a marriage to, I compare them to my sister and this is still true. She is strong, clever, beautiful, funny, charming, graceful and mischievous. Anyone who denies these virtues in her can fight me for it.

Her name is Emma, She has long Strawberry Blonde hair which she brushes obsessively in the morning before deciding what she wants to do with her day and what she wants to do with her day is EVERYTHING. She was and probably still is the absolute despair of my mother as on any given day she had been known to be practising fighting with the guardsmen in the courtyard, helping the grooms muck out the stables, meeting potential suitors, standing a watch on the walls, attending dances and banquets, out working in the fields with the farmers and many more. Often in the same day. She always has a smile on her face, a joke on her lips and has stolen the hearts of many despite seemingly having no interest in being courted. Any time a suitor has turned up she is courteous and polite to them but the boy always leaves disappointed in some way as my sister carries on regardless. She is absolutely clear of any kind of scandal involving lovers and despite her, as I have mentioned, notable beauty she remains at home, happily unmarried and for my money, all power to her.

Father doesn't care that much as it means he doesn't need to pay a dowry and at this point it looks increasingly unlikely that a dowry will be paid.

She is the person that is most responsible for my upbringing as well as the education and upbringing of my immediately elder brother and younger sister. My mother had started to drift apart from us by this point although I would say that it isn't through any kind of conscious choice. I just remember that if I was hurt or upset then I would go to Emma rather than my Mother. Emma encouraged our interests, talked father out of the money needed to educate us properly and according to our abilities and interests. It has been her, rather than Mother who has taken an interest in our relevant lives. She arranged my immediate elder brothers marriage although the name on all the letters was my mothers and I suspect that of all people it will be her that actually runs our Fathers business interests when he was no longer with us, unless Edmund is completely stupid and demands a marriage that sees her off outside the country.

For some reason, after Emma there is a large gap between her and the next child who is Samuel I don't know why there is this kind of gap, I've occasionally wasted a certain amount of time trying to figure out why there is that amount of time just lying around with no new children born in the middle of it but there you go. The closest I've been able to figure out is that Father was distracted by some project or other and other “projects” such as family life were left by the wayside. When this was all done and dealt with he went back to mother and got on with things. I don't know how true this is but it certainly rings about right to my ears.

Sam is my older brother and we were born about 15 months apart and although I love him dearly... I also hate him with a passion that can only exist between two brothers who are so utterly different. In every way that I was kind of awkward, gangly and unattractive growing up, Sam was graceful, co-ordinated and handsome. No matter how hard I worked at physical pursuits, I struggled to build stamina and muscle mass whereas Sam is some kind of male God in proportion. Where I struggled to learn how to grip a sword properly, Sam picked it up with ease and was soon going through arms-masters at a rate of knots. Everything physical that he turned his mind to he could do well and picked it up surprisingly quickly. Climbing, running, fighting, riding, shooting, hunting, jousting or any of the other sports that people play. He was just....good at them. Talented or gifted are the words.

Whereas the opposite is equally as true the other way round when it comes to mental pursuits. Math, writing, reading, poetry, heraldry, etiquette, courtier technique, history, Anthropology and the rest were my remit and I found them easy. No matter how hard he stared at the books trying to will the information into his brain Sammy just couldn't do it. Also, no matter what anyone else tells you. He did work hard at it. Some members of our family claim that he was lazy in that regard but I once found him crying after having been screamed at by a tutor that he was stupid and brainless and lazy despite the fact that we had both been up past midnight trying to get the numbers to do what they were told in his head.

In short, he is physically gifted and I am mentally gifted (although it's embarrassing to say that). We are true opposites and I love him and he loves me.

It's easy to look back now after nearly two years on the road with Kerrass and say that a change of tutors in either case might have made the difference. Also it might be easy to say that I am better prepared for peace time than he is but back then, as he strode from the practice yard, muscles gleaming with an attractive sheen of sweat and sending all the young female servants all of a flutter around his charming good looks. While I, at the same time staggered away, bruised from head to foot and struggling to breathe. I would have traded places in a second.

We did try to help each other in these areas. I tried to tutor him and he me but the results were, alas, predictable as neither of us had the patience to teach properly.

He joined the armed forces and quickly got himself knighted which came with some lands in a remote part of Northern Redania. He's never been to see it and leaves it in the capable hands of the men and women that have worked that land for centuries. As soon as he got the deed, I'm told that he handed it over to father to use as part of the business empire while he carried on with his martial exploits. Now that peace-time reigns he was competent enough to stay in the army and spends his time patrolling and guarding places while attending the odd tournament and winning prizes.

Finally there comes our youngest sister. The pride of the family, little Francesca. Born four years after myself she is the best of all of us from father all the way through. Beautiful, clever and kind. The entire castle (Edmund has barely met her and she was only just born when Mark left) dotes on her whenever she is home. At the time of these events she wasn't present so I don't want to delve into this too far. She was sent to Nilfgaard to be one of the new Empress elect's companions. Although the Empress is a little more boisterous than our sister is we hear that things are going well enough that Francesca is providing a little sister at best or younger cousin at worst for the Empress-elect. Everything she gets, she deserves the lot and when some young noble falls under her spell and marries her it will break my heart.

So that's my family, just about. I think we're fairly representative of families as a whole despite the differences in social and monetary standing. I've met and talked to many farmers families, townsmen families, villager families and everything in between. The genders of the people might change and all, but there is still a good number of similarities. The black sheep (Edmund), the religious one (Mark), The darling (Francesca), the fighty, good looking one (Sam) the one that's too smart for their own good that can also be terribly stupid at times (me), and the one with all the real intelligence that keeps the family together (Emma). There is also the absent parent (My mother) and the driven parent (Father).

In telling you about them all, I am aware that I've carried on at some length about the subject, I wanted to give you a good picture of them all in your brain but I want to make one thing absolutely clear beyond any doubt. I love them all, even though some have pushed that affection, I love them dearly and fiercely. I am aware that I can be sarcastic, ironic, angry and (according to one letter I have received) snarky but do not let this distract you from the fact that I love them all and would fight, kill and die for all of them.

That is no exaggeration.

So there we were, Kerrass, myself, Sir Rickard and his gang of Bastards (his terms) riding pell-mell. Riding hard for my home territory. I am forever grateful to those people for their support of me during those days on the road as we leapt from the backs of horses onto the backs of army supply horses that had been commandeered, sailing past customs posts and inspection posts with one of the Bastards riding in front with Sir Rickards royal military seal displayed prominently screaming the accepted cries of “Make Way,” and watching people scurry out of our way.

I have been on the roads and have had to scramble out of the way of people at the sound of that cry. I have moaned and grumbled about it before but I will never do it again and I would suggest that you shouldn't either. One day it might be regarding you, or for you and yours that a medic, or goods, or medicine or a message needs to be rushed from one place to another.

But we rode hard and fast, eating in the saddle, drinking in the saddle and only stopping when it was too dark to see the road.

Eventually, as these things often do when you are going home, there was a sense of familiarity to the places that we were travelling through. The air smelled slightly different, the ground felt different underfoot and the shapes of hills and forests started to become familiar to me. Old friends that greeted me with the shaking of their leaves and babbling of the waterways and irrigation channels. The roads started to make sense and I could have made my way home even under the cover of darkness. The imminence of the end of the journey started to build up in my chest. That strange feeling of desire, nostalgia and fear that was building there. I may have painted my childhood as being harsh but there were also many good times that we had and happy memories that flashed in front of me vividly. That hill where Emma had brought everyone that she could lay her hands on for a picnic. That tree that I remember climbing up to the top and panicked because I couldn't climb down.

The tracks became more uniform and maintained the closer we got to the castle. Father's input again. We raced through villages and people started to recognise me and called out to me as we past. Part of me wanted to stop and greet people. There was old Bill, the land lord of the pub where I had first gone out and got horribly drunk in with Sam. There was a sombre air in the villages, quiet and more than a little afraid. Flags were down, people wore black and spoke in hushed tones. A cold and icy fear gripped me then that I was too late. That father had already died and I had missed my imagined final meeting with that man, a final opportunity to make peace with the father who had disapproved of my chosen path in life.

Without a word exchanged our poor mounts were kicked into one last burst of effort as we sped through the last mile before the castle.

There it was and I bent over in the saddle as though I had been punched in the gut. I could feel a grip in my throat and nervous energy in my legs which caused my horse to whicker in protest even though it lacked the energy to actually do anything about it. Kerrass glanced at me in concern.

We passed the pheasant woods where Father bred his game birds for the seasonal shooting competitions. We passed some of the out-buildings that were used to maintain the game-birds and hunting birds that were used for the families own birds, training and breeding as well as for those birds that were reserved for visitors who didn't have their own but still wanted to partake in the hunting.

But then there was a problem and my combination of grief and nostalgia that had formed a blanket over my awareness was torn away.

There is a single path up to the castle. Father had lined it with Elm trees because he liked the shapes that they make. The courtyard of the castle had been outgrown by the sheer number of people who would come and trade their goods on our lands and as a result a large area had been put aside for the use of a market. Semi-permanent structures had been erected and were hired out at a fee for the bigger merchants to use and the rest could use whatever space was left. It was big enough that Father had had it arranged so that you had to go through it to get to the castle or to continue on the road. That way any traveller would have to peruse the wares of the land before continuing on their journey. It was one of his better and more cunning ideas.

Today however there was no business being discussed, no market vendors shouting at the populace or milling members of the public arguing cost and quality. Instead there was a line of armed and armoured men. They wore Redanian armour, still replete in it's old colouring with the Nilfgaardian symbols now standing out as part of the paint. They had pikes, shields, clubs and crossbows, all pointed at us even though it wasn't a military formation.

For those people who don't live in either Oxenfurt or Novigrad these people belong to a very particular brand of public service. These people are the Watchmen or Policemen and their job is to find criminals, investigate crime and detain those criminals until their trial. People are often very hard on this particular profession but I have to say that, as a whole and as an ideal organisation, they have my sympathy. They do a thankless, often unpleasant job and people hate them for it. Unless they are needed in which case they are harangued for not doing their job fast enough.

The counter argument though is that although I will admit some men get into the Watch in an effort to make the world and the city that they live in a better place, others are attracted to the Watch because it allows them to be bullies on a legal basis, to persecute anyone they don't like and call it “duty”. Those kinds of Watchmen are the worst kind of people because although they would call themselves public servants, the only kind of person that they actually serve is themselves.

The rider who was ahead of our group to pass on the message that a group of horsemen were coming looked as though he had been dismounted at crossbow point and was scowling at the watchmen who was taking great delight in rifling through his equipment. As we rode up the soldier, who was named Harris, looked at Sir Rickard and shrugged at him.

“Halt,” shouted one of the Watchmen. I don't know if you have ever tried to stop a galloping horse but they don't exactly like stopping when they've been running for a while. “I said HALT!” the watchmen screamed. His voice cracking.

When we did all clatter to a stop Sir Rickard made a gesture and the huge Sergeant who rode next to Sir Rickard showed the Watchmen how to bellow properly.

“MAKE WAY,” he shouted in a voice that had taught itself to carry over battlefields. “KING'S BUSINESS,”

If I had been more alive and awake I might have found the entire scene funny.

The watchmen failed to move although a couple of the outer edges of them exchanged glances.

“You heard the man,” Sir Rickard was rubbing at the ear closest to the Sergeant. “In fact you can barely avoid hearing him. King's business still applies and it is a military offence to obstruct an officer on the Kings business,” He grinned nastily. Kerrass is not the only man who's grin can convey a massive range of emotion.

“I am well aware of that Sir knight. Do not seek to lecture me on matters of law.” A man stepped from the line. I have to be careful here as I took an instant dislike to him. He was tall, thin and although armoured he looked uncomfortable in that armour as well as being the only man there with a sword. He had a large and impressive moustache that hid his mouth and gave the illusion of quivering whenever he spoke. “The law of “King's business” can be disrupted by a properly designated officer of the Law if “King's business” is being used to protect a criminal. Whether in ignorance or not.” He presented it as though it was some kind of holy gospel.

Sir Rickard looked bored.

“Under the laws of military responsibility, any man wearing the uniform of the Kingdom or Country who commits a crime becomes the responsibility of his superior officer. Therefore if any of my men have committed a crime then they are my responsibility, not yours.” He turned to his men who were grinning openly. I have since learned that Watchmen and Soldiers tend to hate each other on general principle. “You all wearing uniform lads?”

The men made a pantomime of checking before a general chorus of positives came from them.

“Leaving aside the obvious criminal nature of your men Rickard that is not why I'm here.”

The pretence of civility slipped from Sir Rickards face.

“Be careful Robart,”

The Watch leader turned to me with a self-satisfied smug little smile.

“Frederick Alain von Coulthard. By the authority invested in me, Sir Robart de Radford by the council of Oxenfurt as Under-sheriff of Oxenfurt I hereby arrest you for the crime of Fratricide,”

At first I didn't believe I'd heard him properly.

“You what?” I exclaimed, anger, astonishment, pain, grief and any number of other emotions claimed me.

The Watchman's smile broadened as he walked forwards and very deliberately took hold of my horses bridle.

“You heard me,” he jeered. “I'm arresting you for murdering your brother you piece of filth.” He turned to his men. “Seize him,”

I kicked him as hard as I could in the head.

As a gesture it lacked subtlety but I was a bit rushed for time.